


Human In The Most Vital Ways

by IsItInkOrIsItBlood



Series: Reflections On Paper And Skin [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 01, Hannibal Lecter Has a Crush, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Vulnerable Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsItInkOrIsItBlood/pseuds/IsItInkOrIsItBlood
Summary: Contrary to speculation Dr. Lecter does experience anxiety and self-doubt. He is human in the most vital ways. Let us witness this humanity as he goes on his first business trip with the FBI.Including:- Dr. Lecter keeps a diary- Will Graham shoots Garrett Jacob Hobbs and Dr. Lecter wishes he had handled things differently- Dr. Lecter gets ink on his nose and can't get it off
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Reflections On Paper And Skin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039958
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

Dr. Lecter is gentle with himself. He tends himself carefully, aware that he receives no nurturing from others and a being requires nurturing to thrive. Like his cooking, like much of his housework, he does it himself. He nourishes himself with beauty, with gratitude, with care and ritual, and with reflection. 

Dr. Lecter is a diarist. He guards this secret as closely as he guards his heart. He writes at night, his night clothes still creased from their life in the drawer, his hair still damp. Generally he writes at the desk in his bedroom. This time he writes propped up in bed in the FBI's choice of hotel. It is the first night he has spent in any proximity to Will Graham.

The diary itself is deep green leather, smooth but for a small, fine carving of a single rosebud and stem bristling with thorns. He bought it in a market in Paris when he was barely more than a boy. It is now very worn, refilled countless times. The symbolism of the focus on the thorns and the unbloomed rose appealed to him, for he has long thought of his inner world as a garden. He is the gardener who prunes and tends, protecting tender vines through dark winters and relishing blossoms of Spring when he is blessed with them. He is intent, always, on blossoming.

When each section of diary is finished he removes the thick, creamy paper and burns it, imagining his internal inconsistencies identified and slated for revision carried up to the sky with the smoke and the ashes. 

He sets nib to paper. 

_It seems the roses are running rampant, climbing the garden walls..._

_I hope he will be gentle with me._

_I hope I can be gentle with him._

Dr. Lecter appreciates the tender ache in his chest and names it. Hope. Gentleness. Through his professional eye he is proud of the person represented there, this greying man with the courage to hope and the hunger for softness and change. It is growth, objectively. It is childlike wonder breaking through bitterness. 

_When did I grow this crust of bitterness? I have hardly noticed, perhaps misnamed it ruthlessness and been so full of hubris I looked it in its wretched face and called brittle rot strength. Though the biology of this festering is not inconsequential there will be no consequences. The light of day cleanses, and there is sunshine. I will scrub what remains and begin anew. I give no quarter to self-reproach._

The last sentence is a commitment. Dr. Lecter takes curating his world -inner and outer- to the level of religion. He is an artisan, honing himself with deliberate work. He is his greatest work of art. 

The only force for which Dr. Lecter will prostrate himself is beauty. Within that is the purity of experience, of his own emotion. He cries at the symphony, he laughs loud and indulges his whimsy with dance-like steps when he’s in a lofty mood in the privacy of his home. He does not censure himself internally. It is against his value system. Judgement is turned inward only as the tool that carves marble into statues. 

This is _work_. Contrary to speculation he does experience anxiety and self-doubt. He is human in the most vital ways. It is what makes him more god than monster. 

He prides himself on his self control precisely because it is hard-won. Oh what a tyrant his emotions were when he was younger, his garden wild, unpassable, full of thorns. 

***

Dr. Lecter sits at the dingy table in the sad hotel where he shares a wall with Jack Crawford and reads yesterday's words. 

_I hope he will be gentle with me._

_I hope I can be gentle with him._

Can. 

_Will_. 

Hannibal knows Will is capable of gentleness, knew it before he watched him clutch earnestly but gracelessly at a gushing throat and refuse to give way to his own expert hands. 

Dr. Lecter set pen to paper. 

_I touched Will Graham for the first time today, two sets of hands overlapped in the blood of a cut throat, all clinging to life. I held on, as befits my skill and profession. He removed his hands but he did not let go._

_No one reached for Will Graham today, reminded him that he is alive and thus he must leave the dead behind and live._

_He wore her blood on his face until the ambulance doors shut._

_Jack Crawford abandoned his man. I got in the ambulance. I let them shut the doors, and I wondered as the sirens blared, if I chose well._

_I am still wondering. Doubt tastes bitter on my tongue, but yet intrigue is sweet._

_For all Will says about eye contact he hunts for mine. That dichotomy was the first thing that sparked my interest beyond his fate as another accident of nature whose visual notes make a melody instead of discord._

_He is a profiler. He cannot be accused of not knowing himself, yet the dissonance exists._

_I should have stood before him and plucked the handkerchief from my pocket. He would have listened if I asked him to be still, compliant in his shock. I would have felt breath on my hand as I tipped his chin up, felt his cheek give under my finger as blood came away in flakes upon the white cloth_. 

"The blood is dried, you're covered in it. Let me check you over and get you cleaned up."

_I could have persuaded him. I could have said please._

_He would have followed me to the car, to my rooms, stood before the hotel sink and let me scrub the blood from underneath his fingernails._

_I could have shared some of this burgeoning gentleness, and I did not. It seems that feeding people may be the only way I nourish them outside my office and my own fantasies._

_How dreadfully myopic. How powerless. How droll._

_Tonight I am tired of myself, exhausted by wasted opportunity._

_Tomorrow I will begin again._

He would have kept that stained white handkerchief. Perhaps he would have used it to mark his place in the diary. He chides himself for being so sentimental, but only in jest, only to remind himself to be careful. He must be deliberate in his unveiling, showing soft spots strategically, observing impacts, adjusting to draw the eye along the path he chooses. Will Graham will test the mettle of that particular skill. 

He should have cleaned the blood from Will Graham's face. 

Dr. Lecter shut his diary and tucked it away into the inner pocket of his leather valise. He capped the smooth black fountain pen in three deft turns of the screw cap. 

He loves this pen. It is a sensual experience. The custom-ground nib whispers across the page and weeps rivulets of ink so dense they glisten and sheen iridescent even after the ink is dry. He carries it everywhere, lets no one borrow it, uncaps and recaps it rythmically and silently when he is restless. Tonight he has left spots of ink on the center of his lower lip where he taps the nib while he is thinking. He is unaware of this.

Dr. Lecter replaces his pen in his inner coat pocket and moves the jacket from the back of the chair to a hanger on the back of the bathroom door. Alas, there is no wardrobe to hang things. He hates living out of a suitcase. Drawers are no better. He pushes in the chair, surveys the room, finds everything in its place. 

He lays down and folds his hands over his chest. He has not cleaned the blood from under his nails, though he will have to in the morning. He has thin, dark stripes between the nail bed and the white tip. 

He rises from beneath the covers to set his scalpel on the bathroom counter as a reminder, then remembers that he flew with the FBI. He has no scalpel, no sturdier pocket knife. He shakes his head. He is evidently more tired than he thought.

Alone in the dark he resents the inelegance of scrounging through his bags and the hotel room for some sharp edge or point to repurpose for this ritual. It is deeply improper, unbalanced with the significance of the task. 

Maybe he will leave it. Maybe he will ask Will for a ride to the airport and watch his hands on the steering wheel. Will they be scrubbed clean, or would Dr. Lecter slide his glance back and forth between two sets of fine hands with blood caught under the nails. 

This is his last thought as he drifts off to sleep. In the night he wets his lips with his tongue, and with them the spot of ink that had dried there. 

He sleeps restlessly in this strange place from home, dragging his arm over his face, his face over the pillows. 

He wakes with smears of rich blue ink across his face and linens. 

Dr. Lecter is not a morning person on the best of days. It was not the best of days.

Instead of spending the morning putting himself together for the day slowly, methodically, as is his custom, the time is taken scrubbing ink from his face. He reaches the point of giving up or leaving his face red for the rest of the day. 

He has forgotten about the blood under his nails. Though the lines are thinner, they are still there. 

He shakes his head as he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he zips his bag. He has a blue stain in the center of his lower lip, and fainter smears across his nose and high on his cheekbone. 

He laughs at himself, low and breathy. This is not the type of indignity that concerns him.


	2. Vehicles For Caffeine And Small Mercies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Lecter has a dreadful time on the way to the airport, and is impacted by the smallest kindness.

Jack volunteers to drive everyone to the airport. Hannibal does not ask Will for a ride. There is no choice really, as Jack has returned Will's rental car early. He blamed it on budgets and the FBI, but Dr. Lecter suspects Jack doesn't want Will left alone.

He could have called a car of course, but that is unthinkable. 

Dr. Lecter folds himself into the backseat of the small car and sets his leather clothing valise on his lap. Beverly is navigating, the only one willing to put herself in the line of fire if Jack makes a wrong turn. By rights she gets the front seat, a well earned honor for her sacrifice in a morning so new the world is still bathed in blues and greys. There is no room in the trunk due to her field kit and his own cookware taking up more than what Jack considers his fair share of space. There's no room at his feet. 

Will Graham ks not at all unwelcome in the back seat beside him, but in his fantasy Will had been driving precisely so Dr. Lecter could wake up slowly, sip his coffee unwatched, keep all the watching for himself. 

Dr. Lecter sips his his coffee with nearly closed eyes, the world shaded and blurred by his lashes. They are on the freeway but a moment when he feels Will's gaze on him.

"Dr. Lecter, uh, you have something on your face." 

Will Graham licks his finger and reaches out, then realizes what he's done. His eyes grow wide and he yanks his hand back long before he lays a hand on Dr. Lecter. 

His cheeks bloom red and he looks in horror at his hand, then hides it away beneath his thigh.

Dr. Lecter is charmed. It is a great deal of effort not to bubble over with mirth. Will doesn't see his smile, wider and warmer than he tends to show in company. 

"I like fountain pens, which unfortunately have a tendency to leave ink stains if you aren't mindful in their handling. It seems I was careless. This is, apparently, my atonement." Dr. Lecter's voice is warm and amused. 

Will relaxes as much as he ever does. 

Beverly cranes to see in the rearview mirror, apparently delighted at the prospect seeing the pristine Dr. Lecter askew. He doesn't resent her for it. He understands the spark of pleasure one gets from catching someone off balance. 

"You tap the pen tip to your lip or the side of your nose when you think, yeah?" Bev says. 

"Frankly I thought I dispensed with the habit of tapping my pen to my lip in medical school. I use this pen every day and I get ink on my hands a few times a year. This is a first."

"It's cute, you look like a schoolboy," Beverly says.

She's a brave one, secure enough in herself to speak her mind. 

He shrugs, a small motion that hides his pleasure in the compliment, but Jack hits a bump at just the wrong time and angle and sends Hannibal's takeaway coffee sloshing. A stream sails out of the spout on the lid. Drops fall on his pants, the car seat, his valise.

He draws a hiss between his teeth. It's hot, it hurts, but it's the indignity he hates; having to scramble to clean things, being put in a position of hassle and disadvantage because lack of consideration and foresight. 

He never drinks coffee in cars. The coffee is awful but so is the headache that will come if he foresakes it. The back seat of the rented economy car has no cup holders. 

He snatches his handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and dabs at the stains. What a waste. He can't even reach it all because the coffee is in one hand and his other forearm rests on the valise to prevent it from knocking the coffee entirely out of his grasp next time Jack hits a pothole. 

"Hey be careful, I don't want to pay cleaning fees on this thing," Jack snaps.

Dr. Lecter lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, hard and sharp. 

He spots the blood under his fingernails and this time it brings him no pleasure. In his upset it has become just another thing amiss that needs to be set right. He can't set it right. His hands are full. He is at the mercy of circumstances. He goes stiff, shoulders lifting, chest tightening. He can't stop himself.

Will let out an exasperated huff. "Don't be a dick, Jack. Slow down if you want a spotless car, or don't book 7 am departure times so we can drink coffee in peace? Like Dr. Lecter would even let you pay the cleaning fee, my god." 

Beverly snickers. Jack is silent. 

Dr. Lecter feels rumpled, dirty, unpresentable even though he smells of the citrus cedar soap he brought from home, his shirt is unwrinkled, and the others all wore some combination of yesterday's cloths and creased suitcase fodder. He knows this, but it's irrelevant. He lets the breath he had been holding he can't lift his eyes. 

Will's open hand extends and hovers at the base of the coffee cup just under his. 

"Let me hold that for a minute Dr. Lecter." 

"Thank you, Will. You're a balm on a difficult morning and I appreciate it."

Will slides his fingers onto the cardboard heat shield, pushing up Hannibal's hand as he does. Hannibal holds on a second longer to make sure Will has a grip. 

It is the second time they have touched, the first time Will has touched him without the outside incentive of a crisis between them.

Hannibal files this away to be enjoyed later and busies himself putting things right. 

He puts his tension behind him deliberately, taking deep breaths as he dabs the dark spots on his trousers and the fine leather of his valise. 

Returned to himself, Hannibal raises his eyes and catches Will's. They are sparkling with a flavor of amusement Hannibal can't identify. 

His breath comes easy, unease replaced with curiosity. 

"Dr. Lecter is awfully formal for someone you've seen covered in blood, fatigue, and now coffee. Please call me Hannibal," he says. 

Will smiles, but the light in his eyes has hidden behind tension as he hands back the coffee cup. 

"I wouldn't think you'd suffer chain coffee with the rest of us, Hannibal. You brought half a kitchen."

Hannibal smiles, just a slight a quirk of the mouth. He is again able to laugh at himself. 

"I forgot my coffee things. I clearly needed more coffee when packing." 

Will laughs, a sharp 'ha' quickly stifled into a soft chuckle and directed out the window. 

The space was shared between them, warm and alive. 

"So you're an addict like the rest of us," Beverly pipes in. 

"I am only human," Hannibal says. For a moment he believes it. For a moment it feels good to believe it. 

"Hey, I'd give a lot for your packing and prep skills… and your kitchen if that breakfast is anything to go by."

"Who got breakfast?" Jack snipes.

"Hannibal made himself an amazing breakfast yesterday," she says. 

She's a good liar, though it isn't precisely a lie. She has controlled the narrative by leaving out that it was Will's breakfast too, and that Will told her about it. That's the only way she could have known. Why did she protect him, he wonders. 

"Maybe next time we can have a team pancake breakfast," Jack harrumphs. 

"I would be delighted to cook you all brunch sometime, but please have mercy and give me the comfort of my kitchen and a reasonable hour." 

"Oh that's awesome! We'd love that, wouldn't we Will!" Beverly says, turning to eye Will pointedly.

He is slumped against the window, eyes closed, curls falling in his face. He speaks without opening his eyes. "Saying no to anyone in this car hasn't worked too well for me."

Only Dr. Lecter smirks. 

Quieter, almost mouthed so Dr. Lecter had to read his lips,vWill says "I'd be a fool to turn down one of your breakfasts Hannibal, even if it did me any good." 

Hannibal beams. Will's face echoes it, though his eyes are still apparently closed.

I'm not wrong, he watches me, Hannibal notes. 

He spends the rest of the ride exceedingly pleased with himself, sipping his caffeine delivery vehicle without tasting it and watching Will slip into sleep against the window. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive any small canon inconsistencies, especially timeline. This isn't beta read. 
> 
> Comments are especially appreciated. What moved you? What gave you a bright spark? This fandom and work is burned out novelist recovery therapy and I appreciate everyone so much.


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